Viktor from my Jayvik meet-cute grad school students AU that Iâll never do anything with except draw them sometimes. This is how Jayce sees Viktor around the time they first meet.
Summary: He doesnât speak much about what he thinks. But youâve always seen through Viktorâs silence â the quiet effort, the unspoken exhaustion. As others drift, you remain. One night, he finally lets you in.
Pairing: Viktor x Reader (with background Jayce friendship)
Word Count: ~1,250
Warnings: emotional vulnerability, soft physical touch, slow-burn tension
You always knew Viktor spoke loudest in his silences.
He had his cane, his tools, his layered thoughts that rarely made it to words. And you? You had patience. The kind of patience most didnât afford him. Jayce tried, yes, but Jayce burned bright â all ambition and fire, while Viktor was wind and coal, steady and quiet and harder to hold.
That was why, on late nights when the lab lights dimmed and the hextech core hummed soft in the dark, it was you Viktor lingered near.
Tonight was one of those nights. Rain scratched at the tall windows. Viktor hadnât said much in the last hour. Just the occasional hum, the tightening of a bolt, the click of metal on glass.
You sat on the floor beside the prototype desk, arms loosely around your knees, watching him.
âDo you ever rest?â you asked softly.
Viktor glanced down, a wry smile tugging. âResting is for those who can afford time. I cannot.â
âYouâre allowed to slow down, you know.â You stood and moved to his side. âJayce will keep the sky from falling for one night.â
He looked at you with tired eyes, something vulnerable behind them. âAnd you? Will you keep me from falling?â
You blinked. His tone wasnât teasing.
You reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away. But he didnât. Your fingers gently took his hand â cold, callused, always working.
âI already am,â you whispered.
He let out a quiet breath. Not quite a sigh, not quite relief. âYou are⊠the only one who sees it. The loneliness of all this. The pressure. Everyone thinks I am driven, but I am only afraid of being left behind.â
You rested your forehead to his shoulder, and he leaned into it like it was a lifeline.
âYouâre not alone,â you murmured. âI see you, Viktor. Even when you hide behind the science.â
Silence.
Then: âIt terrifies me how much I want to believe that.â
He turned, slowly, and let his forehead rest against yours. It was barely a touch. Barely a breath. But it felt like everything.
âIâm not Jayce,â you said. âI wonât shout my love from rooftops or write speeches. But I will stay when things are quiet. When theyâre hard. When theyâre ugly. I will stay.â
His voice cracked when he said your name. Just your name.
Then, carefully, he cupped the back of your head and kissed your brow.
No hunger. No fire. Just a soft, aching pressure that said thank you and Iâm afraid and donât go all at once.
You let your arms circle his waist.
Neither of you needed more than that. Not yet.
Just two souls resting in the space between invention and exhaustion, between loneliness and the quiet hope of love.
Later, when Jayce returned, he found the lights still low.
He didnât disturb you. Just smiled faintly from the doorway when he saw Viktor asleep for once, his hand still loosely wrapped in yours.
Somehow, Jayce always knew how to read a victory when he saw one.
A/N : What do u think about the second one ? Do you like it? Want a second part?
By the way, don't forget to Like, Share and Subscribe !
Iâve never posted on Tumblr before and I donât write a lot so apologies for any mistakes! Donât forget to comment, like, and reblog. Iâm open to comments and requests!
Cross posted on AO3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/61937722
The first time their hands grazed, it was purely by accident⊠possibly. Years ago when their partnership was still fresh and the idea of working near someone new was starting to bud, his fingers had brushed against hers while she handed him a wrench. He broke his steady gaze from the metal object he was tinkering with to look at where his fingers had made contact. He opened his mouth to say something but then furrowed his brows and closed his mouth. After a moment he said, âYou should be more careful.â
Her lips parted with wide eyes and a soft smile forming at his humor. âYes⊠it would be a real shame if I dropped it. I could have broken something.â
He hummed in agreement, nodding to the spotless floor.
He tried to shake the feeling of the softness of her skin to no avail. And so the habit began, the âaccidentalâ and very frequent touches. They continued the habit of his hand slowly brushing against the bottom of hers when she handed him anything but it slowly morphed into other acts.
Over time their little touches became second nature - evolving with their relationship. She was standing on a chair and his hand rested against the small of her back. She peeked down at him and smirked. He looked right back at her and said, âYouâre pretty clumsy you know⊠always tripping⊠itâs a real hazard.â She hadnât tripped in years.
âYouâre absolutely right.â She said as a matter of factly, âI donât know what Iâd do without your support!â She chuckled. A sound so soft that his breath hitched in his throat. Taking a swallow his eyes locked on her back where his fingers splayed.
Soon to follow were more touches, a gentle hand came to rest in between his shoulder blades one day, âViktor! Youâre slouching, you know thatâs not good for your posture.â She said feigning concern. His back brace prevented him from slouching which he knows she can feel under his vest and shirt.
âThat is very thoughtful.â He said earnestly.
âIsnât it? You know I want the best for youâ
His lips quirked up at the way her hand trailed to brush against the back of his neck when she moved away. Viktor briefly glimpsed her covering up a smile at her desk.
And then there were the late nights. Long hours spent in the lab, going over formulas, revising blueprints and tinkering with Hextech, often turned into leisurely walks home together - purely to ensure her safety and nothing else. On one night, her arm slipped into his and said, âThe topside is such a dangerous place,â her voice laced with concern and a small frown tugging at her brows. He looked down at her face and saw the corners of her lips quirked up.
âMuch more dangerous than the Undercity.â He said without missing a beat.
âYes, Iâm so glad that youâre here. I think someone could jump out and grab me if I were alone.â
âYou would be at a great risk without someone to hold on to.â He said while nodding his head to get the point across as they walked through undoubtedly the safest area of Piltover. His mind halted at the warmth of how natural her arm fit into his.
On one evening when he was about to walk her home, he slowed his pace and said, âHmm, the weather is dreadful to be walking in. At this rate our shoes will be flooded.â She looked up at the clear sky and frowned, shielding her hair with her free hand.
âWe should hurry to your apartment.â She said as they took their time.
At first she took his bed while he took the couch, and then the next night she took the couch while he slept in his bed. It became a ritual to go straight to his apartment rather than hers that was all the way across town. It was truly a miracle that she had been making the trek to her own apartment this whole time. She thanked her stars that he was kind enough to let her stay with him more often than in her own bed. She made sure to stop just next door to grab some of her toiletries though.
One evening, he was resting in bed watching her braid her hair before she retired for the night. He watched the rhythmic motion of her fingers weaving silky strands together and felt a jolt in his chest. Before he could stop himself he quietly said, âItâs a little cold, donât you think?â
She rubbed her toasty feet together, âYouâre right. Thereâs definitely a chill in here. I guess we can share the bed if we keep to our own sides.â
He hastily agreed, âThat would be the most respectable thing to do.â
He struggled with the knowledge that he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears not knowing that she was going through the same struggle. She was glad that the dimness of the room blanketed her flaming cheeks while he was grateful that the moon shone on her face enough to tell that she was blushing for him.
âThis cold sure isnât letting up is it?â She whispered staring into his golden eyes.
âBitterly cold.â He said without hesitation.
âFreezingâ her breath tickled his face as she scooted closer
âUnbearableâ he murmured, his arm brushing against her waist. The crickets chirped outside, louder with the open window allowing for the summer breeze to cool off his room.
Every touch came with a reason. That was the most sound thing to do in any scenario. It would be very irresponsible to touch a coworker for no reason.
Tonight was different. The pull between them was so taught that they could no longer skirt around what was happening between them.
As they worked late into the night, the tension between them seemed to settle heavier and heavier with each passing moment. She felt his eyes on her and turned to meet his stare. His eyes narrowed at her lips.
âYour lips are chapped.â His tone infused with something deeper. His eyes quickly flitted from her eyes down to her mouth.
âAre they?â She felt like she was out of breath from the look on his face.
âYes, they are so chapped that they are practically cracking. You should probably do something about that.â
âThat would be a real tragedy. How would I go over plans with you and Jayce?â She said in a worried tone, her hand coming up to brush over them lightly - smooth and velvety, and she gasped, âYes, youâre right - theyâre very chapped.â
âIâm sorry to say so.â He said softly leaning forward.
âIt would be a shame if they bled.â She said just as softly with a teasing smile.
âDisastrous.â He was leaning forward, âYou wouldnât be able to talk for days.â
âI should probably find something to cover them.â Her gaze fixed on his lips, âI just ran out of lip balm though and the market is surely closed by now.â
âThatâs a real shame⊠covering them has to be the only solution.â His eyes half lidded and staring down at her soft lips.
She nodded, her nose brushing against his, barely mumbling, âMhm.â
Their words stopped with gentle breaths against their faces. She looked up at him through her lashes and let them flutter closed at his proximity. His hand came up to rest on her nape, thumb brushing the juncture where her jaw meets her neck. Their lips met in a slow kiss. Moving gently together with a hesitation that deepened into an unmistakable pull.
When they parted, breathless and flushed, she whispered âWell⊠that solves the problem for now.â
Pairing: Viktor (Arcane) x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used)
Genre: angst/fluff
Word Count: 7 449
Warnings: no use of (y/n), Viktor behaves like an ass in the beginning, self-doubts
Summary: Your routine of checking up on Viktor, who fell asleep in the lab takes an unexpected turn
Prompts: enemies (not really) to lovers
A/N: For @spongelll (let me know if you want to be tagged in any future Bucky and or/Viktor stuff) Before writing: I have so many long ideas, but I know I canât finish them, so Iâm trying to write something short and sweet here.
You feel like an intruder in your own laboratory, as you quietly crank open the heavy, double winged door, peeking inside. The lights are turned off, safe for the one on the wide desk at the far end of the room. And there, in the halo of a lamp that bravely beats on against the oppressive push of the darkness of the late hour, sits Viktor. His back is to the door, his cane leaning against the table next to him, and his head? hanging so low over his notes that you know he must be asleep.
The smile on your lips is accompanied by a tucking in your chest, that is not entirely positive. Another night he spends in the lab, another night he misses out on his soft bed, doubtlessly the same academy-sponsored bed sheets in his dorm room staying cool for another night, just like the ones in your own dorm room.
The thought, that it probably isnât good for him to never take off that chest brace, or the one for his knee, pushes into your mind, and for a short, delirious moment you consider waking him, walking over, shaking his shoulder, telling him to go to his room and rest properly. Sitting like that canât be good for his neck either. It isnât. Youâve seen him enough times, after nights like this one, how he spends the next day rolling his head from left to right, shrugging his shoulders, hoping to get rid of the painful tensions in them.
But before you even step into the room fully, you already know that you will not wake him, less for his sake than for yours. Youâre selfish, maybe, not wanting to be met with the harsh and unforgiving stare and a scoff that tells you not to bother him while he is working. You have enough of these reactions memorized as it is, and each one feels like the sting of a needle in your soul, needles that get pushed in a little further each time another one gets added, another scoff, a dismissive wave of his hand, a gaze averted too quickly, as if he couldnât stand looking at someone he so clearly deems below himself by so much.
And it hurts. You wish it didnât, that you could be indifferent to his jabs and degradations, but you arenât. Maybe, because you donât understand why he is like this towards you. Everyone else he treats with the respect any living being inherently deserves, everyone, without exceptions. Sure, he rolls his eyes at the naive questions of first year students, but he answers them patiently. He sometimes assumes too much experience from his assistants and shakes his head at them when he has to explain again. But you, who is not his assistant but his equal in the laboratory, you he treats as if you should know every one of his complex thoughts and understand them without him having to explain.
Maybe it was a compliment, and you really try to see it as such, but somewhere along the line his reactions to your questions become a painful sting, an experience you try to avoid. Where he is kind a gentle with others, he is harsh and prickly with you, his patience thinning into anger as if you were intentionally not understanding his leaps in thoughts. You have gotten better at finding the thin lines that connect one idea to the next inside his mind, but sometimes you still have to ask, lest the situation become dangerous while working with something as powerful as HexTech, and each of his annoyed reactions is another needle added to your heart, which feels like a pincushion by now.
It irritates you, his insistence to keep you at armâs length, ensuring you can never become more than a co-worker, even though you try, try becoming something like a friend, the way you became friends with Jayce and Sky so easily. Even when friendship isnât what you wish for, deep down in your heart, not when you look at his whiskey-golden eyes or his tousled hair that refuses to obey the restrictions of any product he ever might have tried using to flatten it down, not when you see the adorably delighted grin on his lips whenever an experiment ended up working out the way he had planned it. His distance irritates you all the more, seeing how he tries to engage with everyone else, trying to find a place to fit in, with his science and HexTech-experiments, a place that accepts him for him, and not a crooked, perverted version of himself, made to fit into the tight frame of societal expectations. You wonder what it is about you that makes him push you away, if it is a misunderstanding, or just you as a person. You wish he wouldnât look down on you, shush you harshly, ignore you, make you feel like you are worth less than you are, but whatever it is about you that makes him act this way, even if you knew, you would not change it. You like the way you are, and even if he hurts you, maybe more than he is aware of, maybe even more than he could forgive himself for, you would rather stay true to yourself than let him bend you into a person you do not wish to be.Â
Which leads you here, standing in the dimly lit lab holding a thin blanket, instead of waking him and sending him to his room to sleep. A thin blanket, which you have gotten used to keeping around for moments like this, moments when Viktor falls asleep in the lab as if it were the only place that offers him the peace to shut his eyes. Quietly you walk over to him, careful to keep the clicking of your hard-soled shoes to a minimum, vigilant not to disturb him.Â
His head is sunken to his chest, chocolate-brown strands of hair having fallen into his face, and your fingers tingle with the urge to brush them away, out of his eyes, tuck them behind his ear, or maybe just to feel them against your skin. Of course you donât reach out, instead take a moment longer to admire his sleeping form. For once the crease between his brows has smoothed out, the problems in his experiments and equations forgotten momentarily while he has escaped to the realm of dreams, and you wonder which pictures paint themselves behind his eyelids. You catch yourself wishing your portrait is hung in his mind, not even big, you know it wouldnât be, but maybe a small acknowledgment, a footnote in his memory of the work you accomplished together.
You shoo the thought away, reaching past him, and move the cup next to his notebook a safe distance away from his hand and the edge of the desk. You have seen Viktor fall asleep at his desk often enough to know that sometimes he flinches in his sleep, and you donât want to risk him pouring the remaining contents of his cup over his notes.
For a moment you linger, hesitate as you look at the pen in his hand. Itâs still touched to the paper, already having left some lines that donât belong between the neatly written calculations. A glance at his face, and you make your decision, very slowly reaching out. You almost hold your breath as your fingers close around the back end of the pen, and- youâre lucky, Viktorâs hold on the pen isnât tight. Carefully you pull the pen out of his hand, his fingers only twitching once, trying to grasp at what is no longer there, but then his hand relaxes and falls to the desk, more relaxed than before.
Quickly you check to see if the intrusion into his space has woken him up, but Viktorâs eyes are still closed, his breath still deep and even, blissfully unaware of the care he receives by the very same hands he so often refuses to acknowledge. His long lashes rest against his faintly freckled cheeks, and for a moment you canât help but think that the ladies of Piltover would certainly kill for lashes as full and long as Viktorâs. Maybe itâs for the best that he hides away behind books and lab equipment; youâre certain he could throw the high society of the city into love-drunk chaos if he used the charms, you know he possesses, for evil.
You know he has charms because you have been unfortunate to have witness him weaponize it during a meeting discussing the funding for future HexTech funding, and in equal parts shock and amusement you found his charms had worked. So, he can be charming, you concluded afterwards, and simply consciously decides not to be with you.
Jerk.
The word pushes so close to your lips, tinted with unjustified admiration, that it almost spills over, before you swallow it back down into a hidden place in your chest, the deepest part of your heart, where you never have to acknowledge it again.
Taking a deep breath, you turn away, unfolding the thin blanket next to Viktor. This is the most difficult part - covering him with it, without him noticing. But not once in the many times you have done him this favour has he ever woken, so your nerves are not nearly as on edge as the first few times. Indeed, this time too, he doesnât even stir, just keeps breathing, keeps dreaming of you-donât-know-what. And maybe you donât even want to know.Â
For a moment you stand and look at him, wondering why after all this dismissive behaviour towards you, you still care, still try to melt the ice he has piled up in blocks between you.
Maybe itâs because you feel attracted to his brilliance, you think. But then again, Jayce is brilliant too, and what you feel towards him is so different from the gravity Viktorâs character exerts on you. Maybe itâs because he is beautiful, not like a fairy tale prince, but more like the brilliant scientist who struggled his whole life to be allowed to conduct the studies his heart aches to perform with the goal to acquire the knowledge to help the people. Well, he is that scientist, isnât he. Or maybe itâs his kindness, the one he shows everyone but you, the one you almost enviously watch him hand out to the people in his life, while you hide in the corner with a smile on your face, like the child that snuck in to see a play, hiding under the seats while watching their favourite fairy tale unfold before their very eyes, maybe the one about the kind scientist.Â
In the end, you conclude, it doesnât matter why you ended up with your feelings so entangled in non-sense, the answer to the why wouldnât change the fact, which is that you care for Viktor and he not for you. But you are not yet ready to let go of that care, even when you long have given up hope.
Instead, you adjust the blanket a little to cover him fully, and step back. Tomorrow morning, when you come in to resume your work, your own equations and calculations, the blanket will sit neatly folded on the corner of Viktorâs table, while he is leaning over his notebooks, pen in one hand, a steaming cup of hot tea in the other. He will not mention the blanket, not even when you grab it on your way to your lunch break. If he will acknowledge your presence beyond the discussion of his latest findings, it will be to tell you to close the door, or to demand you should breathe more quietly.
An inaudible sigh frees itself from your throat without your permission, and then you reach to his desk lamp, dimming the light. Itâs too dark now to work, but just right for napping. Should Viktor wake up before the sunlight of a new day floods the laboratory high above the city, he will neither wake to darkness nor to blinding light.
With a last glance you check the still peacefully sleeping Viktor and his desk. The cup is safe from being pushed over, the pen no longer drawing lines over his notebook, the blanket covering Victor to keep him warm though the night. Everything is as it should be. Well, should be beyond the fact that Viktor is sleeping here, instead of his bed.
You turn to leave, are halfway across the room, when suddenly the sound of your name being spoken breaks the silence and makes you freeze.
~*~
Itâs the distinct feeling of something slipping through his fingers, something intangible, something he cannot put into words. Maybe itâs not even something physical, never was, just a feeling, but Viktorâs fingers try to keep holding on, try to keep this something in his palm, but it slips, slips away beyond where he can reach it.
No, he realises with the panic setting in of a realisation that comes too late, not something. Itâs you, heâs losing. He knows it. Isnât this what you wanted, a part of his mind mocks him. He isnât sure why he would ever treat you with anything but the purest affection, the gentlest words, the most heartfelt reassurances, but he does. He never lets the warmth in his heart bleed into his words, much less his actions.
You irritate him, with your sweetness, how you never treat him like someone who needs help, but rather someone you care for. Itâs dangerous, why canât you see that? You wouldnât want him, not really. He knows this much. Why do you keep being so kind to him, when all you do, knowingly or not, is bind his heart to you, each understanding word, every question about his work, even the smallest gestures of holding open a door, not to mention the big ones, the blankets you cover him with when he fell asleep at his desk, and the lunchboxes you put next to his notes, are one sling of the rope after the other binding his heart to you, a tangle of his soul to your very being.
He tried to keep you away, a wordless warning that you wouldnât want him, not with his unrelenting focus on his work, not with his broken body and his distracted mind, not with how much less he is of what you deserve. But you stay around, and it kills him inside every time he forces himself not to react to how sweet you are to him, instead of taking your face between his hands, which - he is sure - could cover your whole face.
He wishes he could be delicate with you, as soft and caring as you are with him, but to keep you safe he grows thorns and sharp edges, and even when he scratches you, you still push through.
Things get even more difficult, infinitely more torturous when you stop being sweet. When the caring, human side of you melts away into the cool, analytical side that juggles formulas and theories and numbers and ideas through the room as if you had never done anything else. Underneath your hands working chalk against blackboard walls, brilliance takes shape in the form of equations. The way you write them down is like light, refracting in a drop of water, making what seemed dull and well known suddenly like an explosion of colour and possibilities, and Viktor hates himself every time he doesnât tell you that without your approaches to HexTech he never could have made progress in his own work.
But between the sweetness of your character and the brilliance fall a million other things that make him want to wrap his heart around you and never let you go. The way you laugh, especially when you feel like you donât have to hide it for reasons of politeness. The way you jump up stairs or storm down corridors when you have an idea you need to write down. The way you explain, gesticulating, voice tight with excitement. The way you respect and admire the people you work with, encouraging, supporting, ever curious for new insights, new approaches. And there is so much more of you, things Viktor canât even begin to understand while he keeps himself at armâs length.
Last week you brushed his arm by accident, and the short contact, really just the sensation of his shirt being pressed to his skin for a split second has made him strangely aware of your physicality- you are real. You are human. Your skin is soft, even though he may never touch it. Your hands might be warm, like his, or maybe theyâre cool. They might be cool, considering you often wear a layer more than him, as if youâre cold. He suspects the clean smell of simple soap to cling to you, even though he has never allowed himself to lean in far enough to inhale it. Beneath your skin there is blood rushing, breath filling your lungs, a heart beating in your chest, and it hurts knowing those are parts of you he will never feel. Even if you were to let him, he canât let himself. For your sake. For your safety.Â
Then why- then why is there panic now in the way his fingers tighten around nothing, grasping for you, the thing he has sworn himself to never reach for? Why is his heart racing, why does the warmth that suddenly engulfs him feel like itâs the last time he will ever feel its comfort?
Panic surged through him, and rises, rises, constricts his breath, claws at his throat, makes him gag and thrash against the darkness that swallows him. Itâs dark and warm, but soon enough the warmth will fade, and you will be gone.
And then?
Then what?
What is he without you but a heart unravelled, torn to pieces by his own cowardice? Why does he have to be the strong one, he wonders, his head light as he drowns in dark warmth. Why does he have to protect you? Canât he let himself fall into your arms, which you have been holding out so willingly for so long? You offer him your arm, offer yourself as a crutch, so when you offer, why does he insist on refusing to lay his weight on you?
He sputters at the despair filling his lungs, reaches and reaches for what has slipped through his fingers.
Why can he not allow himself to accept your offer? Because he thinks there is nothing he can give you in return. But can he not support you, too? You help him walk, and he catches you, should you ever stumble. He will carry his weight, not put more on you than he must, but he can accept your help, can he not? Can he not put his heart into your hands? Would you let him hold yours in return? He would hold it carefully, the way one holds a baby bird in the hollow of their hands. He would hold your heart, and if you let him, he would hold you, too.
All of you.
Not just the parts he sees now, not just the parts he likes, the parts that fit him.
All of you.
But youâre slipping through his fingers, just as he allows himself to feel, just as he allows himself to tear down the walls he tried to build. And his fingers close around nothing, his chest fills with warmth he knows will evaporate soon enough into the darkness beyond his eyelids, and in one last, desperate plea, your name falls from his lips.
~*~
Itâs just a whisper, your name spoken in the silence of the dimly lit laboratory, and for a moment you think you just imagined Viktorâs familiar voice sounding out your name. He hardly ever uses it, the times he does, so rare and few between, you sometimes wonder if he even remembers it. But now it bridges the short distance between where he sits, and where you are on your way towards the door. It reaches out, brushes against you and then evaporates into nothingness, but is enough to make you halt your steps, wondering if maybe you yourself have fallen asleep and are dreaming up a world in which he cared enough to know your name.Â
Just as you come to the conclusion that your own, sleep-deprived mind played a trick on you, there is the faint sound of fabric rustling, before your name is spoken again, clearer this time, more than a whisper, almost desperate, Viktorâs accent wrapping thickly into the vowels and consonants, as if making it his own, something only he gets to call you.Â
You want to stand your ground, refuse turning around and tell him âYou shouldnât sleep in the lab, Viktor. Go to bed.â But you donât. Maybe you canât. You canât ever be strict or curt with him, even when he deserves it. So instead, you turn around, your heart hammering hard in your chest.
Why?
Because you have been caught in the act of caring for someone who discards every service as irrelevant, worse, less than that? Or because his voice sounds so frail, so scared, but is still enough to make the air around you vibrate, fill the high-ceiling room with the sudden awareness that it is just you and him here, him wrapped into the blanket you put over him, your name wrapped in his gentle voice. Gentle⊠something he has never been with you. It makes alarm bells ring in your mind, and your racing heart is over-written by sudden concern.Â
âViktor,â you breath the quiet reply as you twist, turning to look back at him.Â
He has sat up in his chair, turned enough to look at you over his shoulder, his face shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable. The blanket you so carefully pulled over his shoulders has slipped down to where it catches in his elbows that remain propped up on the table.
For a moment you just look at each other, hesitant, neither of you sure where this is going, a confrontation you had attempted to avoid, one Viktor couldnât deny having anticipated. But you donât know that, donât know of the panic that surged in his chest at the thought you might slip from between his fingers, not even aware that was where you had been, thinking you were separated by oceans he had filled with buckets upon buckets of indifference.
You expect a scolding, a scoff, a âyouâre too loudâ or âwhyâd you wake meâ, at least a roll of his eyes and him to turn away, so when he lifts his hand of the table and reaches out, a feeble attempt to bridge the meters between you, you are not sure what to make of it. All you do is stare at his hand for a moment, stare at the way he stretches, reaches for you, a silent, unvoiced plea that you almost swear you just imagine in the gesture.
Hesitating another moment, you finally turn around fully, slowly walking back over, but when you reach him, his eyes never leaving your face, you donât take his hand, just consider it for a moment before abandoning the idea. He makes the decision for you, wrapping his fingers, long and warm and blotted with ink stains, around yours, pulling you closer. There is a tension in his shoulders, that begins to fall away as soon as his skin is against yours, a tension that loosens with every inch you close.
âYouâre still here,â he observes, looking up at you from where he sits, his head finally turned enough towards the light to have his face lit up.
His eyes shine golden, but they lack the sharp edge he usually considers you with. Instead, they are open, like he forgot to lock the gates to his soul this time before looking at you. Behind them, there is vulnerability you are not used to seeing from him, and even after years of knowing him, you are not sure you have ever seen him like this, laid bare, every feeling in the open. But you donât know how to read him. You know the closed version of him, and the carefully friendly version he shares with the others close to him, but this Viktor is a book written in a language you have never seen before. It is all right there, right before your eyes, pleading you to understand, and you lack the experience with him to do so. Itâs painful and frustrating, because you are certain, in this moment, that you will never get another chance, will never get the time to decode the signs that put together the emotions he shows you now.Â
A flicker of understanding brushes over his face, his lips lift in a small smile, as if he had heard your thoughts, your internal scolding of not holding a dictionary for his most inner motions ready at hand.
âYouâre still here,â he repeats, and you donât know what to answer.
It doesnât seem like he expects an answer though, because he gets up from his chair, his hand still closed around yours, and stands before you. The blanket you so carefully had wrapped him in unravelled itself, slipped from his lap, caught against his trousers in something that made it almost seem reluctant to follow the physics of gravity, before piling at his feet.
Now that he stands, Viktor is taller than you, and you almost have to tilt your head a little to look into his face. His expression is still open, still unguarded maybe for the first time since you met him, and his mouth opens as if to say something, maybe explain himself.
And then he falls forwards.Â
At first you think he lost his balance, or collapsed, but the moment his body comes to meet yours, you realise itâs none of that. He still stands, carries his own weight, but is leaning against you, his arms, thin but surprisingly strong, come around you, pulling you into him. Not harsh, not oppressive, not in a way that wouldnât allow you immediate escape, but steady, present, intentional.
He knows what heâs doing and heâs doing nothing he didnât mean to, and he lets you know, letâs you take in the shock for a moment, before his arms wrap tighter around you, his feet move him closer, and one of his hands travels to the spot between your shoulder blades, holding you against him, his hands warm enough to bleed unfamiliar comfort through your jacket, right into your skin.
Youâre still hesitating, completely overwhelmed and so confused. What is this, what does this mean? Why does he let you in, searches your touch?
You give in without meaning to, let your own arms circle around him, not as tight as he holds you, but with just enough strength to signal him you want this, want him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you let your head fall against him, let your temple rest against his vest.
Heâs warm, you realise the longer the contact gets drawn out. Even the parts of his body where you feel the rigid brace over his torso are warm, hard metal digging into your stomach, and doubtlessly into his as well.
You canât help but allow yourself to be overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your senses, the shape of his chest against yours, uneven and interrupted by metal hidden underneath the silky fabric of his shirt, adorned with hard, metal buttons, the weight of his arms around you, the caress of his hands, holding you, confident in a way you hadnât expected him to be. The fabric of his vest is smooth under your fingertips, the buttons on the back stretching the fabric around his slim waist, a waist that now, that you got your arms around it, you realise isnât really that slim, only in comparison to the rest of the body. Something to hold on to, someone to sink into. Somehow you had always imagined Viktor to be more fragile than he is, now, that his arms are holding you to him. But there is nothing fragile about his body, only lean muscle and soft skin and warmth that engulfs you in way you hadnât even dared dreaming about.
Then you feel his lips against your forehead, plush and soft, the brush of his nose against your hair, the tickle of beard stubble he ignored for a day too long on the skin underneath. His lips linger, make your breath hitch, and then stop as your hold your breath, waiting, not capable of imagining what could possibly have tempted him enough to do that. But his lips stay pressed to your skin, soft, caressing, his breath fanning over your face, reminding you to take a breath of your own before your lungs ache for oxygen.
You could swear you feel a soundless chuckle in his chest, as if it amuses him that you cannot fathom what is happening, that he holds you as if he intended to never let go, but what you donât know is the pain that makes his chest ache along with his amusement, pain over having made you believe he could ever want anything other than being this close to you.Â
You stand like this for a long time, his body steady and warm against yours, while you are stiff from surprise and disbelief. But he waits, waits for the tension to fall away, waits until you relax enough to let your body melt against him. And finally, finally it feels like he is complete. Your touch, the way you mould yourself against him, fills every creak and crevance in his torn, little heart and he holds you a little tighter, breaths a little deeper, and closes his eyes so tight he thinks he might never get them open again. He wouldnât mind if he didnât, as long as it meant you never had to step away from him.
But you do eventually. Not before not a long while has passed, not before not your hearts have gotten so used to feeling each otherâs rhythms against ribs and metal braces that they calmed down to a calm duet of affection that doesnât need words to make the other body understand.
You do understand, at least thatâs what Viktor hopes, because he isnât strong enough to find a verbal language to express the fear he holds so tight in his chest. The fear that he is too much trouble for a free soul like yours, or maybe not enough of everything you desire. And he most certainly doesnât know how to tell you that despite every word and every gesture, every action and rejection he used to make you believe he wouldnât care, he loves you.
He will figure out that it takes just three words, but sometimes the simplest solutions seem the most difficult to find under the rubble of grand declarations and impossibly tight-wound feelings.
So, he doesnât have the words to answer the questions that swim in your eyes when you pull away to look at him. Your hands are on his waist, pushing yourself away from him, like he once pushed himself away from you, but now the stuffy air that separates you from him, even if itâs just a few inches, feels like a cruel abyss, cold and insurmountable.
He knows you deserve better, deserve to know why he was once so distant and what made this distance turn into a burning fire of need to feel you by his side, but he doesnât know how to do better, and you donât demand him to be better either. You search his face, for something he wishes he could phrase, but you donât need words it seems, finding your answers in his eyes, because you reach up, cupping his cheek in your palm, just a short contact of your fingers against his skin and- you smile. Viktor swears the sun just rose right in front of him, warm and gentle and so absolutely necessary for life as he knows it, beautiful enough for him to be able to push aside the fear of getting burned.Â
Your fingers drop away again, a chill replacing their brushed caress, and finally Viktor can speak, even if itâs not what you deserve to be told, only what he selfishly wants to take.Â
âStay with me,â he breathes, and a shiver runs down your spine as you look up into those golden irises that have burned themselves so deep into your mind you can even see them when you close your eyes. âStay with me.â
You blink, slowly regaining a sense of your surroundings, which had melted away the moment Viktorâs hand had met yours, and you remember where you are, why you are here, the blanket pooling around Viktorâs ankles.Â
âNot here,â you tell him, and he almost startles, you feel the shock ripple through his body as if coming to the same realisation as you: Youâre still standing at his desk in his lab. He looks like he has been torn out of a dream, blinking at you before suddenly looking away, his eyes scanning the walls of books and windows and blackboards. âNot tonight.â
When he looks back at you, his gaze has changed, and you brace for what you had been waiting for the whole time: him pushing you away again, reeling back in the vulnerability and shutting the gates to his soul, never to open them for you again.Â
When he reaches back out to you, mirroring the way you hold him by the waist, you can tell he relishes in your surprise.Â
âNot here,â he repeats your words back at you, his eyes still soft, and he leans in a little closer. âNot tonight. Not here tonight. Where then?â
You understand what heâs going for, even if itâs not what you had meant. At the same time, you cannot deny that what heâs asking is what you want to ask but havenât allowed yourself. Instead, you had tried making it sound like itâs about the time rather the place. But Viktor sees through you, even through the mask you put on so that whatâs inside your soul doesnât scare him away. Either he has sharper eyes than you had realised until now or he simply knows no fear. While for now you assume the latter, the truth lies in the former.
His question still hangs between you, his âthâ more a âdâ due to his accent, and even though the familiar sound of it tries coaxing you to speak your mind, you cannot admit that right now all you want is to curl up against him, or around him, on your bed, so you remain silent.
He looks at you, as if your reply is written in your eyes, and maybe it is, because he nods, as if to agree, or maybe he decided for himself what he wants to do, because he pulls away and reaches for the button of the desk lamp, switching it off.
In the darkness that engulfs you instantly your ears feel like their hearing has improved a hundred-fold, hearing him move as he picks up the blanket from the floor and throws it on his chair, even when all you can think about is how cold you feel where his hands had rested moments ago.
In the absolute dark Viktorâs hand finds yours, not unlike the first touch he shared with you tonight - no, not just tonight, but ever. You hear the clicking of his cane, as it hits the floor and then he tucks at your hand, guiding you towards the door you slipped through like a thief in the night. The only thing you have stolen though is Viktorâs heart, but that was long before tonight. Although perhaps it could be said that tonightâs loot is nobody other than the brilliant scientist himself, stolen away from his desk by the realization gained in a nightmare that he must not let love slip through his fingers.Â
As Viktor leads you through the corridors of the Academy, you barely pay attention to anything but his hand in yours, larger, with long fingers that close around yours in a certainty and confidence you find yourself admiring. Perhaps itâs simply the fact that you admire him. You donât pay much mind where he brings you, trusting him, knowing he wouldnât harm you or do anything you object.Â
When he stops in front of his dorm room door, youâre calm, almost as if the way he had held you before had drained all the nerves from your body, and so you let him lead you inside, kick your shoes off next to the door, and follow him to the bed, onto which he pulls you down on top of him. His arms come back around you, holding you in place when you try shifting off him, worried you might hurt him with your weight.Â
âStay,â he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath like an intoxicating mist on your skin.
âIâm heavy,â you attempt to argue weakly, âIâll hurt you.â
His arms tighten on you, pulling you closer, and you can hear more than see him shake his head.
âStay.â A single word, a command, a plea.
âYour braces-â
Viktor sighs, and for a moment you wonder if this is where he kicks you back out of his life as his arms loosen around you, and you push up to lean over him.
âYou care-âÂ
too much, is what youâre certain he wanted to say, but he just stares at you, as youâre propped up over him, and if you werenât waiting for rejection, you might have closed the gap and kissed him.Â
But the last two words never come, swallowed up in affection and disbelieving bliss as his aureate eyes read the concern in yours. Concern that shifts as you get distracted by the specks of bronze in his irises, the light freckles that dot over his nose and cheeks all the way down to his neck, where they disappear under the collar of his shirt. Theyâre so faint you never noticed them until you almost had your nose pressed to them, and you find you love every single one of them, wish you could lean down to show them - show Viktor - your affection with the brush of your lips.
âYou care.â Viktorâs mind feels like a scratched record, unable to come up with any new words, only repeating the ones his throat had already fought to rasp out, and he regrets the way your eyes jump from where they were running over the skin of his neck back to his eyes. Their caress was soft and appreciative, and he vows to himself to ask you to do it again, just not tonight. Maybe under bright sunlight where he can see your eyes shine and make out the baby hair that grows where your face ends and your hair begins.Â
It is as if his words have torn you out of your stupor, and quickly you sit up.
âYou have to change out of the braces,â you tell him, and Viktor shakes his head in defeat, before obeying your order, limping to the bathroom to change.
You watch him disappear, and suddenly you feel too awkward to move. Your body suddenly is heavy with sleep, but you resist the temptation of his soft looking pillow, the one that is sure to wrap you in his scent, and instead stay seated, waiting for him to come back.
When he does, his hair is tousled from pulling his shirt over his head, the clothes he is wearing now looking soft and comfortable, not unlike the ones you had thrown on before sneaking into the laboratory to take care of him.
The memory of how the evening started makes a smile tuck at your lips, and Viktor raises an eyebrow at you, in equal parts amused and curious.
âWonât you share your thoughts,â he asks, glad to finally have access to his vocabulary again. Most of it anyways.
âJust-â You watch as he sits down next to you, before laying down and reaching his hands out for you; an invitation to come back into his arms. You donât hesitate. âWhen I came into the lab, I wanted to make sure you would sleep at least a little more comfortably.â
Viktor pulls you against his chest, now a lot softer than a few minutes ago with the brace. His chest expands and deflates evenly as he shifts you to lay half on top of him. It is the first time you are so close to him, so intimate in his bed even before having tasted his kiss or spoken words of confessions. Still, it feels natural, like you belong, like you are meant to be in his arms. He feels the same.
âIâm sure Iâll sleep more comfortably tonight than any night before,â he admits, an affectionate glint in his eyes that makes your knees weak. âAndâŠâ he hesitates, his eyes flickering away, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, âI do hope itâs just the first night of many.â
Your heart jumps and your cheeks heat up, so you drop your head to his shoulder, hiding the embarrassment of hearing words you had dreamt about hearing for so long. His hands rub your back in slow, firm circles, but the quiet laugh that rumbles in his chest gives away not just his amusement at your reaction but also his melting anxiety about your answer.
âFine,â you agree, your words muffled against his shirt. âOnly the first.â
A shimmer of fear remains as you bid your good night to him, curled against his warm body, that things will be different in the morning, that his resentment will have returned, that he might kick you out or have disappeared by the time you wake. But Viktor still holds you tight when you wake up, brushing his nose against your cheek and smiling at you as if thereâs a secret only the two of you know.
Brushes of his nose against your cheek that morning turn to brushes of his hands against yours throughout the day and the next weeks, then to brushes against your elbow, brushes of his nose against your hair, his lips against your cheeks and finally an explanation of what had changed so suddenly before you take the leap and press your lips to his in a kiss that neither of you would have dared hoping for three months ago.
Itâs easy to take your time, to slowly work up from one display of affection to the next, because you know youâre in the right place, and there is no haste.
And life goes on.
Different, and yet the same. Still equations and formulas paint themselves against the blackboards in the laboratory, directed by your hand, and still Viktor watches you, watches the brilliant colours of unlocking natureâs secrets coming to life through you, but he no longer turns his gaze away, when you look over to him. He no longer sends you away when you offer him lunchboxes, but invites you to sit with him, or even joins you for lunch outside in the gardens.
He lets himself lean on you, even if itâs not much, it eases the weight he sometimes feels on his shoulders, and he catches you, when you stumble through nights of little sleep or low moods. And even though it is perhaps the one thing nobody else notices, it's the one thing that makes the biggest difference to him, and to you: he no longer sleeps in the lab. Even when he stays late, there is always a point in which his body aches for sleep, sleep in the arms of the one person he trusts most, the one person he loves with more of his heart than he ever thought was possible to give.
So, he sneaks down the corridors on those nights when he hasnât pulled you back into his own room, tries to mute the sound of his cane against the tiles as he moves towards your door and slips in, like an intruder. But he isnât. Not when itâs your arms he falls into, not when itâs your body that presses to him and tells him he is home.
A/N: This turned out not short (for me) and only sweet towards the end. Also, I feel like I was on drugs while writing this (I promise, I wasn't).
Words can't describe how beautifully written this was, at least, not any that I can think of.
Here I was DESPERATELY looking for angst and fluff (too many smut fics-- no offense at all, I just yearn and LOVE angst and fluff), and then this masterpiece comes up when I was about to close the app and just head to sleep.
AGHH amazing work. Seriously, my heart ached and fluttered. Its rare for fanfiction to do that to me, especially when it brings me to the verge of tears (I did shed a few tears not gonna lie...) đđ„č.
(I had Picture You by Chappell Roan playing sooo..it really set the mood for me.)
And hey, I still woke up on time to go to work so it's a win-win situation. I got to read a good fic before knocking out and I still woke up on time. đŒ
Pairing: Viktor (Arcane) x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used)
Genre: angst/fluff
Word Count: 7 449
Warnings: no use of (y/n), Viktor behaves like an ass in the beginning, self-doubts
Summary: Your routine of checking up on Viktor, who fell asleep in the lab takes an unexpected turn
Prompts: enemies (not really) to lovers
A/N: For @spongelll (let me know if you want to be tagged in any future Bucky and or/Viktor stuff) Before writing: I have so many long ideas, but I know I canât finish them, so Iâm trying to write something short and sweet here.
You feel like an intruder in your own laboratory, as you quietly crank open the heavy, double winged door, peeking inside. The lights are turned off, safe for the one on the wide desk at the far end of the room. And there, in the halo of a lamp that bravely beats on against the oppressive push of the darkness of the late hour, sits Viktor. His back is to the door, his cane leaning against the table next to him, and his head? hanging so low over his notes that you know he must be asleep.
The smile on your lips is accompanied by a tucking in your chest, that is not entirely positive. Another night he spends in the lab, another night he misses out on his soft bed, doubtlessly the same academy-sponsored bed sheets in his dorm room staying cool for another night, just like the ones in your own dorm room.
The thought, that it probably isnât good for him to never take off that chest brace, or the one for his knee, pushes into your mind, and for a short, delirious moment you consider waking him, walking over, shaking his shoulder, telling him to go to his room and rest properly. Sitting like that canât be good for his neck either. It isnât. Youâve seen him enough times, after nights like this one, how he spends the next day rolling his head from left to right, shrugging his shoulders, hoping to get rid of the painful tensions in them.
But before you even step into the room fully, you already know that you will not wake him, less for his sake than for yours. Youâre selfish, maybe, not wanting to be met with the harsh and unforgiving stare and a scoff that tells you not to bother him while he is working. You have enough of these reactions memorized as it is, and each one feels like the sting of a needle in your soul, needles that get pushed in a little further each time another one gets added, another scoff, a dismissive wave of his hand, a gaze averted too quickly, as if he couldnât stand looking at someone he so clearly deems below himself by so much.
And it hurts. You wish it didnât, that you could be indifferent to his jabs and degradations, but you arenât. Maybe, because you donât understand why he is like this towards you. Everyone else he treats with the respect any living being inherently deserves, everyone, without exceptions. Sure, he rolls his eyes at the naive questions of first year students, but he answers them patiently. He sometimes assumes too much experience from his assistants and shakes his head at them when he has to explain again. But you, who is not his assistant but his equal in the laboratory, you he treats as if you should know every one of his complex thoughts and understand them without him having to explain.
Maybe it was a compliment, and you really try to see it as such, but somewhere along the line his reactions to your questions become a painful sting, an experience you try to avoid. Where he is kind a gentle with others, he is harsh and prickly with you, his patience thinning into anger as if you were intentionally not understanding his leaps in thoughts. You have gotten better at finding the thin lines that connect one idea to the next inside his mind, but sometimes you still have to ask, lest the situation become dangerous while working with something as powerful as HexTech, and each of his annoyed reactions is another needle added to your heart, which feels like a pincushion by now.
It irritates you, his insistence to keep you at armâs length, ensuring you can never become more than a co-worker, even though you try, try becoming something like a friend, the way you became friends with Jayce and Sky so easily. Even when friendship isnât what you wish for, deep down in your heart, not when you look at his whiskey-golden eyes or his tousled hair that refuses to obey the restrictions of any product he ever might have tried using to flatten it down, not when you see the adorably delighted grin on his lips whenever an experiment ended up working out the way he had planned it. His distance irritates you all the more, seeing how he tries to engage with everyone else, trying to find a place to fit in, with his science and HexTech-experiments, a place that accepts him for him, and not a crooked, perverted version of himself, made to fit into the tight frame of societal expectations. You wonder what it is about you that makes him push you away, if it is a misunderstanding, or just you as a person. You wish he wouldnât look down on you, shush you harshly, ignore you, make you feel like you are worth less than you are, but whatever it is about you that makes him act this way, even if you knew, you would not change it. You like the way you are, and even if he hurts you, maybe more than he is aware of, maybe even more than he could forgive himself for, you would rather stay true to yourself than let him bend you into a person you do not wish to be.Â
Which leads you here, standing in the dimly lit lab holding a thin blanket, instead of waking him and sending him to his room to sleep. A thin blanket, which you have gotten used to keeping around for moments like this, moments when Viktor falls asleep in the lab as if it were the only place that offers him the peace to shut his eyes. Quietly you walk over to him, careful to keep the clicking of your hard-soled shoes to a minimum, vigilant not to disturb him.Â
His head is sunken to his chest, chocolate-brown strands of hair having fallen into his face, and your fingers tingle with the urge to brush them away, out of his eyes, tuck them behind his ear, or maybe just to feel them against your skin. Of course you donât reach out, instead take a moment longer to admire his sleeping form. For once the crease between his brows has smoothed out, the problems in his experiments and equations forgotten momentarily while he has escaped to the realm of dreams, and you wonder which pictures paint themselves behind his eyelids. You catch yourself wishing your portrait is hung in his mind, not even big, you know it wouldnât be, but maybe a small acknowledgment, a footnote in his memory of the work you accomplished together.
You shoo the thought away, reaching past him, and move the cup next to his notebook a safe distance away from his hand and the edge of the desk. You have seen Viktor fall asleep at his desk often enough to know that sometimes he flinches in his sleep, and you donât want to risk him pouring the remaining contents of his cup over his notes.
For a moment you linger, hesitate as you look at the pen in his hand. Itâs still touched to the paper, already having left some lines that donât belong between the neatly written calculations. A glance at his face, and you make your decision, very slowly reaching out. You almost hold your breath as your fingers close around the back end of the pen, and- youâre lucky, Viktorâs hold on the pen isnât tight. Carefully you pull the pen out of his hand, his fingers only twitching once, trying to grasp at what is no longer there, but then his hand relaxes and falls to the desk, more relaxed than before.
Quickly you check to see if the intrusion into his space has woken him up, but Viktorâs eyes are still closed, his breath still deep and even, blissfully unaware of the care he receives by the very same hands he so often refuses to acknowledge. His long lashes rest against his faintly freckled cheeks, and for a moment you canât help but think that the ladies of Piltover would certainly kill for lashes as full and long as Viktorâs. Maybe itâs for the best that he hides away behind books and lab equipment; youâre certain he could throw the high society of the city into love-drunk chaos if he used the charms, you know he possesses, for evil.
You know he has charms because you have been unfortunate to have witness him weaponize it during a meeting discussing the funding for future HexTech funding, and in equal parts shock and amusement you found his charms had worked. So, he can be charming, you concluded afterwards, and simply consciously decides not to be with you.
Jerk.
The word pushes so close to your lips, tinted with unjustified admiration, that it almost spills over, before you swallow it back down into a hidden place in your chest, the deepest part of your heart, where you never have to acknowledge it again.
Taking a deep breath, you turn away, unfolding the thin blanket next to Viktor. This is the most difficult part - covering him with it, without him noticing. But not once in the many times you have done him this favour has he ever woken, so your nerves are not nearly as on edge as the first few times. Indeed, this time too, he doesnât even stir, just keeps breathing, keeps dreaming of you-donât-know-what. And maybe you donât even want to know.Â
For a moment you stand and look at him, wondering why after all this dismissive behaviour towards you, you still care, still try to melt the ice he has piled up in blocks between you.
Maybe itâs because you feel attracted to his brilliance, you think. But then again, Jayce is brilliant too, and what you feel towards him is so different from the gravity Viktorâs character exerts on you. Maybe itâs because he is beautiful, not like a fairy tale prince, but more like the brilliant scientist who struggled his whole life to be allowed to conduct the studies his heart aches to perform with the goal to acquire the knowledge to help the people. Well, he is that scientist, isnât he. Or maybe itâs his kindness, the one he shows everyone but you, the one you almost enviously watch him hand out to the people in his life, while you hide in the corner with a smile on your face, like the child that snuck in to see a play, hiding under the seats while watching their favourite fairy tale unfold before their very eyes, maybe the one about the kind scientist.Â
In the end, you conclude, it doesnât matter why you ended up with your feelings so entangled in non-sense, the answer to the why wouldnât change the fact, which is that you care for Viktor and he not for you. But you are not yet ready to let go of that care, even when you long have given up hope.
Instead, you adjust the blanket a little to cover him fully, and step back. Tomorrow morning, when you come in to resume your work, your own equations and calculations, the blanket will sit neatly folded on the corner of Viktorâs table, while he is leaning over his notebooks, pen in one hand, a steaming cup of hot tea in the other. He will not mention the blanket, not even when you grab it on your way to your lunch break. If he will acknowledge your presence beyond the discussion of his latest findings, it will be to tell you to close the door, or to demand you should breathe more quietly.
An inaudible sigh frees itself from your throat without your permission, and then you reach to his desk lamp, dimming the light. Itâs too dark now to work, but just right for napping. Should Viktor wake up before the sunlight of a new day floods the laboratory high above the city, he will neither wake to darkness nor to blinding light.
With a last glance you check the still peacefully sleeping Viktor and his desk. The cup is safe from being pushed over, the pen no longer drawing lines over his notebook, the blanket covering Victor to keep him warm though the night. Everything is as it should be. Well, should be beyond the fact that Viktor is sleeping here, instead of his bed.
You turn to leave, are halfway across the room, when suddenly the sound of your name being spoken breaks the silence and makes you freeze.
~*~
Itâs the distinct feeling of something slipping through his fingers, something intangible, something he cannot put into words. Maybe itâs not even something physical, never was, just a feeling, but Viktorâs fingers try to keep holding on, try to keep this something in his palm, but it slips, slips away beyond where he can reach it.
No, he realises with the panic setting in of a realisation that comes too late, not something. Itâs you, heâs losing. He knows it. Isnât this what you wanted, a part of his mind mocks him. He isnât sure why he would ever treat you with anything but the purest affection, the gentlest words, the most heartfelt reassurances, but he does. He never lets the warmth in his heart bleed into his words, much less his actions.
You irritate him, with your sweetness, how you never treat him like someone who needs help, but rather someone you care for. Itâs dangerous, why canât you see that? You wouldnât want him, not really. He knows this much. Why do you keep being so kind to him, when all you do, knowingly or not, is bind his heart to you, each understanding word, every question about his work, even the smallest gestures of holding open a door, not to mention the big ones, the blankets you cover him with when he fell asleep at his desk, and the lunchboxes you put next to his notes, are one sling of the rope after the other binding his heart to you, a tangle of his soul to your very being.
He tried to keep you away, a wordless warning that you wouldnât want him, not with his unrelenting focus on his work, not with his broken body and his distracted mind, not with how much less he is of what you deserve. But you stay around, and it kills him inside every time he forces himself not to react to how sweet you are to him, instead of taking your face between his hands, which - he is sure - could cover your whole face.
He wishes he could be delicate with you, as soft and caring as you are with him, but to keep you safe he grows thorns and sharp edges, and even when he scratches you, you still push through.
Things get even more difficult, infinitely more torturous when you stop being sweet. When the caring, human side of you melts away into the cool, analytical side that juggles formulas and theories and numbers and ideas through the room as if you had never done anything else. Underneath your hands working chalk against blackboard walls, brilliance takes shape in the form of equations. The way you write them down is like light, refracting in a drop of water, making what seemed dull and well known suddenly like an explosion of colour and possibilities, and Viktor hates himself every time he doesnât tell you that without your approaches to HexTech he never could have made progress in his own work.
But between the sweetness of your character and the brilliance fall a million other things that make him want to wrap his heart around you and never let you go. The way you laugh, especially when you feel like you donât have to hide it for reasons of politeness. The way you jump up stairs or storm down corridors when you have an idea you need to write down. The way you explain, gesticulating, voice tight with excitement. The way you respect and admire the people you work with, encouraging, supporting, ever curious for new insights, new approaches. And there is so much more of you, things Viktor canât even begin to understand while he keeps himself at armâs length.
Last week you brushed his arm by accident, and the short contact, really just the sensation of his shirt being pressed to his skin for a split second has made him strangely aware of your physicality- you are real. You are human. Your skin is soft, even though he may never touch it. Your hands might be warm, like his, or maybe theyâre cool. They might be cool, considering you often wear a layer more than him, as if youâre cold. He suspects the clean smell of simple soap to cling to you, even though he has never allowed himself to lean in far enough to inhale it. Beneath your skin there is blood rushing, breath filling your lungs, a heart beating in your chest, and it hurts knowing those are parts of you he will never feel. Even if you were to let him, he canât let himself. For your sake. For your safety.Â
Then why- then why is there panic now in the way his fingers tighten around nothing, grasping for you, the thing he has sworn himself to never reach for? Why is his heart racing, why does the warmth that suddenly engulfs him feel like itâs the last time he will ever feel its comfort?
Panic surged through him, and rises, rises, constricts his breath, claws at his throat, makes him gag and thrash against the darkness that swallows him. Itâs dark and warm, but soon enough the warmth will fade, and you will be gone.
And then?
Then what?
What is he without you but a heart unravelled, torn to pieces by his own cowardice? Why does he have to be the strong one, he wonders, his head light as he drowns in dark warmth. Why does he have to protect you? Canât he let himself fall into your arms, which you have been holding out so willingly for so long? You offer him your arm, offer yourself as a crutch, so when you offer, why does he insist on refusing to lay his weight on you?
He sputters at the despair filling his lungs, reaches and reaches for what has slipped through his fingers.
Why can he not allow himself to accept your offer? Because he thinks there is nothing he can give you in return. But can he not support you, too? You help him walk, and he catches you, should you ever stumble. He will carry his weight, not put more on you than he must, but he can accept your help, can he not? Can he not put his heart into your hands? Would you let him hold yours in return? He would hold it carefully, the way one holds a baby bird in the hollow of their hands. He would hold your heart, and if you let him, he would hold you, too.
All of you.
Not just the parts he sees now, not just the parts he likes, the parts that fit him.
All of you.
But youâre slipping through his fingers, just as he allows himself to feel, just as he allows himself to tear down the walls he tried to build. And his fingers close around nothing, his chest fills with warmth he knows will evaporate soon enough into the darkness beyond his eyelids, and in one last, desperate plea, your name falls from his lips.
~*~
Itâs just a whisper, your name spoken in the silence of the dimly lit laboratory, and for a moment you think you just imagined Viktorâs familiar voice sounding out your name. He hardly ever uses it, the times he does, so rare and few between, you sometimes wonder if he even remembers it. But now it bridges the short distance between where he sits, and where you are on your way towards the door. It reaches out, brushes against you and then evaporates into nothingness, but is enough to make you halt your steps, wondering if maybe you yourself have fallen asleep and are dreaming up a world in which he cared enough to know your name.Â
Just as you come to the conclusion that your own, sleep-deprived mind played a trick on you, there is the faint sound of fabric rustling, before your name is spoken again, clearer this time, more than a whisper, almost desperate, Viktorâs accent wrapping thickly into the vowels and consonants, as if making it his own, something only he gets to call you.Â
You want to stand your ground, refuse turning around and tell him âYou shouldnât sleep in the lab, Viktor. Go to bed.â But you donât. Maybe you canât. You canât ever be strict or curt with him, even when he deserves it. So instead, you turn around, your heart hammering hard in your chest.
Why?
Because you have been caught in the act of caring for someone who discards every service as irrelevant, worse, less than that? Or because his voice sounds so frail, so scared, but is still enough to make the air around you vibrate, fill the high-ceiling room with the sudden awareness that it is just you and him here, him wrapped into the blanket you put over him, your name wrapped in his gentle voice. Gentle⊠something he has never been with you. It makes alarm bells ring in your mind, and your racing heart is over-written by sudden concern.Â
âViktor,â you breath the quiet reply as you twist, turning to look back at him.Â
He has sat up in his chair, turned enough to look at you over his shoulder, his face shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable. The blanket you so carefully pulled over his shoulders has slipped down to where it catches in his elbows that remain propped up on the table.
For a moment you just look at each other, hesitant, neither of you sure where this is going, a confrontation you had attempted to avoid, one Viktor couldnât deny having anticipated. But you donât know that, donât know of the panic that surged in his chest at the thought you might slip from between his fingers, not even aware that was where you had been, thinking you were separated by oceans he had filled with buckets upon buckets of indifference.
You expect a scolding, a scoff, a âyouâre too loudâ or âwhyâd you wake meâ, at least a roll of his eyes and him to turn away, so when he lifts his hand of the table and reaches out, a feeble attempt to bridge the meters between you, you are not sure what to make of it. All you do is stare at his hand for a moment, stare at the way he stretches, reaches for you, a silent, unvoiced plea that you almost swear you just imagine in the gesture.
Hesitating another moment, you finally turn around fully, slowly walking back over, but when you reach him, his eyes never leaving your face, you donât take his hand, just consider it for a moment before abandoning the idea. He makes the decision for you, wrapping his fingers, long and warm and blotted with ink stains, around yours, pulling you closer. There is a tension in his shoulders, that begins to fall away as soon as his skin is against yours, a tension that loosens with every inch you close.
âYouâre still here,â he observes, looking up at you from where he sits, his head finally turned enough towards the light to have his face lit up.
His eyes shine golden, but they lack the sharp edge he usually considers you with. Instead, they are open, like he forgot to lock the gates to his soul this time before looking at you. Behind them, there is vulnerability you are not used to seeing from him, and even after years of knowing him, you are not sure you have ever seen him like this, laid bare, every feeling in the open. But you donât know how to read him. You know the closed version of him, and the carefully friendly version he shares with the others close to him, but this Viktor is a book written in a language you have never seen before. It is all right there, right before your eyes, pleading you to understand, and you lack the experience with him to do so. Itâs painful and frustrating, because you are certain, in this moment, that you will never get another chance, will never get the time to decode the signs that put together the emotions he shows you now.Â
A flicker of understanding brushes over his face, his lips lift in a small smile, as if he had heard your thoughts, your internal scolding of not holding a dictionary for his most inner motions ready at hand.
âYouâre still here,â he repeats, and you donât know what to answer.
It doesnât seem like he expects an answer though, because he gets up from his chair, his hand still closed around yours, and stands before you. The blanket you so carefully had wrapped him in unravelled itself, slipped from his lap, caught against his trousers in something that made it almost seem reluctant to follow the physics of gravity, before piling at his feet.
Now that he stands, Viktor is taller than you, and you almost have to tilt your head a little to look into his face. His expression is still open, still unguarded maybe for the first time since you met him, and his mouth opens as if to say something, maybe explain himself.
And then he falls forwards.Â
At first you think he lost his balance, or collapsed, but the moment his body comes to meet yours, you realise itâs none of that. He still stands, carries his own weight, but is leaning against you, his arms, thin but surprisingly strong, come around you, pulling you into him. Not harsh, not oppressive, not in a way that wouldnât allow you immediate escape, but steady, present, intentional.
He knows what heâs doing and heâs doing nothing he didnât mean to, and he lets you know, letâs you take in the shock for a moment, before his arms wrap tighter around you, his feet move him closer, and one of his hands travels to the spot between your shoulder blades, holding you against him, his hands warm enough to bleed unfamiliar comfort through your jacket, right into your skin.
Youâre still hesitating, completely overwhelmed and so confused. What is this, what does this mean? Why does he let you in, searches your touch?
You give in without meaning to, let your own arms circle around him, not as tight as he holds you, but with just enough strength to signal him you want this, want him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you let your head fall against him, let your temple rest against his vest.
Heâs warm, you realise the longer the contact gets drawn out. Even the parts of his body where you feel the rigid brace over his torso are warm, hard metal digging into your stomach, and doubtlessly into his as well.
You canât help but allow yourself to be overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your senses, the shape of his chest against yours, uneven and interrupted by metal hidden underneath the silky fabric of his shirt, adorned with hard, metal buttons, the weight of his arms around you, the caress of his hands, holding you, confident in a way you hadnât expected him to be. The fabric of his vest is smooth under your fingertips, the buttons on the back stretching the fabric around his slim waist, a waist that now, that you got your arms around it, you realise isnât really that slim, only in comparison to the rest of the body. Something to hold on to, someone to sink into. Somehow you had always imagined Viktor to be more fragile than he is, now, that his arms are holding you to him. But there is nothing fragile about his body, only lean muscle and soft skin and warmth that engulfs you in way you hadnât even dared dreaming about.
Then you feel his lips against your forehead, plush and soft, the brush of his nose against your hair, the tickle of beard stubble he ignored for a day too long on the skin underneath. His lips linger, make your breath hitch, and then stop as your hold your breath, waiting, not capable of imagining what could possibly have tempted him enough to do that. But his lips stay pressed to your skin, soft, caressing, his breath fanning over your face, reminding you to take a breath of your own before your lungs ache for oxygen.
You could swear you feel a soundless chuckle in his chest, as if it amuses him that you cannot fathom what is happening, that he holds you as if he intended to never let go, but what you donât know is the pain that makes his chest ache along with his amusement, pain over having made you believe he could ever want anything other than being this close to you.Â
You stand like this for a long time, his body steady and warm against yours, while you are stiff from surprise and disbelief. But he waits, waits for the tension to fall away, waits until you relax enough to let your body melt against him. And finally, finally it feels like he is complete. Your touch, the way you mould yourself against him, fills every creak and crevance in his torn, little heart and he holds you a little tighter, breaths a little deeper, and closes his eyes so tight he thinks he might never get them open again. He wouldnât mind if he didnât, as long as it meant you never had to step away from him.
But you do eventually. Not before not a long while has passed, not before not your hearts have gotten so used to feeling each otherâs rhythms against ribs and metal braces that they calmed down to a calm duet of affection that doesnât need words to make the other body understand.
You do understand, at least thatâs what Viktor hopes, because he isnât strong enough to find a verbal language to express the fear he holds so tight in his chest. The fear that he is too much trouble for a free soul like yours, or maybe not enough of everything you desire. And he most certainly doesnât know how to tell you that despite every word and every gesture, every action and rejection he used to make you believe he wouldnât care, he loves you.
He will figure out that it takes just three words, but sometimes the simplest solutions seem the most difficult to find under the rubble of grand declarations and impossibly tight-wound feelings.
So, he doesnât have the words to answer the questions that swim in your eyes when you pull away to look at him. Your hands are on his waist, pushing yourself away from him, like he once pushed himself away from you, but now the stuffy air that separates you from him, even if itâs just a few inches, feels like a cruel abyss, cold and insurmountable.
He knows you deserve better, deserve to know why he was once so distant and what made this distance turn into a burning fire of need to feel you by his side, but he doesnât know how to do better, and you donât demand him to be better either. You search his face, for something he wishes he could phrase, but you donât need words it seems, finding your answers in his eyes, because you reach up, cupping his cheek in your palm, just a short contact of your fingers against his skin and- you smile. Viktor swears the sun just rose right in front of him, warm and gentle and so absolutely necessary for life as he knows it, beautiful enough for him to be able to push aside the fear of getting burned.Â
Your fingers drop away again, a chill replacing their brushed caress, and finally Viktor can speak, even if itâs not what you deserve to be told, only what he selfishly wants to take.Â
âStay with me,â he breathes, and a shiver runs down your spine as you look up into those golden irises that have burned themselves so deep into your mind you can even see them when you close your eyes. âStay with me.â
You blink, slowly regaining a sense of your surroundings, which had melted away the moment Viktorâs hand had met yours, and you remember where you are, why you are here, the blanket pooling around Viktorâs ankles.Â
âNot here,â you tell him, and he almost startles, you feel the shock ripple through his body as if coming to the same realisation as you: Youâre still standing at his desk in his lab. He looks like he has been torn out of a dream, blinking at you before suddenly looking away, his eyes scanning the walls of books and windows and blackboards. âNot tonight.â
When he looks back at you, his gaze has changed, and you brace for what you had been waiting for the whole time: him pushing you away again, reeling back in the vulnerability and shutting the gates to his soul, never to open them for you again.Â
When he reaches back out to you, mirroring the way you hold him by the waist, you can tell he relishes in your surprise.Â
âNot here,â he repeats your words back at you, his eyes still soft, and he leans in a little closer. âNot tonight. Not here tonight. Where then?â
You understand what heâs going for, even if itâs not what you had meant. At the same time, you cannot deny that what heâs asking is what you want to ask but havenât allowed yourself. Instead, you had tried making it sound like itâs about the time rather the place. But Viktor sees through you, even through the mask you put on so that whatâs inside your soul doesnât scare him away. Either he has sharper eyes than you had realised until now or he simply knows no fear. While for now you assume the latter, the truth lies in the former.
His question still hangs between you, his âthâ more a âdâ due to his accent, and even though the familiar sound of it tries coaxing you to speak your mind, you cannot admit that right now all you want is to curl up against him, or around him, on your bed, so you remain silent.
He looks at you, as if your reply is written in your eyes, and maybe it is, because he nods, as if to agree, or maybe he decided for himself what he wants to do, because he pulls away and reaches for the button of the desk lamp, switching it off.
In the darkness that engulfs you instantly your ears feel like their hearing has improved a hundred-fold, hearing him move as he picks up the blanket from the floor and throws it on his chair, even when all you can think about is how cold you feel where his hands had rested moments ago.
In the absolute dark Viktorâs hand finds yours, not unlike the first touch he shared with you tonight - no, not just tonight, but ever. You hear the clicking of his cane, as it hits the floor and then he tucks at your hand, guiding you towards the door you slipped through like a thief in the night. The only thing you have stolen though is Viktorâs heart, but that was long before tonight. Although perhaps it could be said that tonightâs loot is nobody other than the brilliant scientist himself, stolen away from his desk by the realization gained in a nightmare that he must not let love slip through his fingers.Â
As Viktor leads you through the corridors of the Academy, you barely pay attention to anything but his hand in yours, larger, with long fingers that close around yours in a certainty and confidence you find yourself admiring. Perhaps itâs simply the fact that you admire him. You donât pay much mind where he brings you, trusting him, knowing he wouldnât harm you or do anything you object.Â
When he stops in front of his dorm room door, youâre calm, almost as if the way he had held you before had drained all the nerves from your body, and so you let him lead you inside, kick your shoes off next to the door, and follow him to the bed, onto which he pulls you down on top of him. His arms come back around you, holding you in place when you try shifting off him, worried you might hurt him with your weight.Â
âStay,â he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath like an intoxicating mist on your skin.
âIâm heavy,â you attempt to argue weakly, âIâll hurt you.â
His arms tighten on you, pulling you closer, and you can hear more than see him shake his head.
âStay.â A single word, a command, a plea.
âYour braces-â
Viktor sighs, and for a moment you wonder if this is where he kicks you back out of his life as his arms loosen around you, and you push up to lean over him.
âYou care-âÂ
too much, is what youâre certain he wanted to say, but he just stares at you, as youâre propped up over him, and if you werenât waiting for rejection, you might have closed the gap and kissed him.Â
But the last two words never come, swallowed up in affection and disbelieving bliss as his aureate eyes read the concern in yours. Concern that shifts as you get distracted by the specks of bronze in his irises, the light freckles that dot over his nose and cheeks all the way down to his neck, where they disappear under the collar of his shirt. Theyâre so faint you never noticed them until you almost had your nose pressed to them, and you find you love every single one of them, wish you could lean down to show them - show Viktor - your affection with the brush of your lips.
âYou care.â Viktorâs mind feels like a scratched record, unable to come up with any new words, only repeating the ones his throat had already fought to rasp out, and he regrets the way your eyes jump from where they were running over the skin of his neck back to his eyes. Their caress was soft and appreciative, and he vows to himself to ask you to do it again, just not tonight. Maybe under bright sunlight where he can see your eyes shine and make out the baby hair that grows where your face ends and your hair begins.Â
It is as if his words have torn you out of your stupor, and quickly you sit up.
âYou have to change out of the braces,â you tell him, and Viktor shakes his head in defeat, before obeying your order, limping to the bathroom to change.
You watch him disappear, and suddenly you feel too awkward to move. Your body suddenly is heavy with sleep, but you resist the temptation of his soft looking pillow, the one that is sure to wrap you in his scent, and instead stay seated, waiting for him to come back.
When he does, his hair is tousled from pulling his shirt over his head, the clothes he is wearing now looking soft and comfortable, not unlike the ones you had thrown on before sneaking into the laboratory to take care of him.
The memory of how the evening started makes a smile tuck at your lips, and Viktor raises an eyebrow at you, in equal parts amused and curious.
âWonât you share your thoughts,â he asks, glad to finally have access to his vocabulary again. Most of it anyways.
âJust-â You watch as he sits down next to you, before laying down and reaching his hands out for you; an invitation to come back into his arms. You donât hesitate. âWhen I came into the lab, I wanted to make sure you would sleep at least a little more comfortably.â
Viktor pulls you against his chest, now a lot softer than a few minutes ago with the brace. His chest expands and deflates evenly as he shifts you to lay half on top of him. It is the first time you are so close to him, so intimate in his bed even before having tasted his kiss or spoken words of confessions. Still, it feels natural, like you belong, like you are meant to be in his arms. He feels the same.
âIâm sure Iâll sleep more comfortably tonight than any night before,â he admits, an affectionate glint in his eyes that makes your knees weak. âAndâŠâ he hesitates, his eyes flickering away, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, âI do hope itâs just the first night of many.â
Your heart jumps and your cheeks heat up, so you drop your head to his shoulder, hiding the embarrassment of hearing words you had dreamt about hearing for so long. His hands rub your back in slow, firm circles, but the quiet laugh that rumbles in his chest gives away not just his amusement at your reaction but also his melting anxiety about your answer.
âFine,â you agree, your words muffled against his shirt. âOnly the first.â
A shimmer of fear remains as you bid your good night to him, curled against his warm body, that things will be different in the morning, that his resentment will have returned, that he might kick you out or have disappeared by the time you wake. But Viktor still holds you tight when you wake up, brushing his nose against your cheek and smiling at you as if thereâs a secret only the two of you know.
Brushes of his nose against your cheek that morning turn to brushes of his hands against yours throughout the day and the next weeks, then to brushes against your elbow, brushes of his nose against your hair, his lips against your cheeks and finally an explanation of what had changed so suddenly before you take the leap and press your lips to his in a kiss that neither of you would have dared hoping for three months ago.
Itâs easy to take your time, to slowly work up from one display of affection to the next, because you know youâre in the right place, and there is no haste.
And life goes on.
Different, and yet the same. Still equations and formulas paint themselves against the blackboards in the laboratory, directed by your hand, and still Viktor watches you, watches the brilliant colours of unlocking natureâs secrets coming to life through you, but he no longer turns his gaze away, when you look over to him. He no longer sends you away when you offer him lunchboxes, but invites you to sit with him, or even joins you for lunch outside in the gardens.
He lets himself lean on you, even if itâs not much, it eases the weight he sometimes feels on his shoulders, and he catches you, when you stumble through nights of little sleep or low moods. And even though it is perhaps the one thing nobody else notices, it's the one thing that makes the biggest difference to him, and to you: he no longer sleeps in the lab. Even when he stays late, there is always a point in which his body aches for sleep, sleep in the arms of the one person he trusts most, the one person he loves with more of his heart than he ever thought was possible to give.
So, he sneaks down the corridors on those nights when he hasnât pulled you back into his own room, tries to mute the sound of his cane against the tiles as he moves towards your door and slips in, like an intruder. But he isnât. Not when itâs your arms he falls into, not when itâs your body that presses to him and tells him he is home.
A/N: This turned out not short (for me) and only sweet towards the end. Also, I feel like I was on drugs while writing this (I promise, I wasn't).
Words can't describe how beautifully written this was, at least, not any that I can think of.
Here I was DESPERATELY looking for angst and fluff (too many smut fics-- no offense at all, I just yearn and LOVE angst and fluff), and then this masterpiece comes up when I was about to close the app and just head to sleep.
AGHH amazing work. Seriously, my heart ached and fluttered. Its rare for fanfiction to do that to me, especially when it brings me to the verge of tears (I did shed a few tears not gonna lie...) đđ„č.
(I had Picture You by Chappell Roan playing sooo..it really set the mood for me.)
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